You will never know the exact moment when the future becomes the past, but you will recognize it when it arrives.

Predictions are just memories that haven’t happened yet. They sit in the same mental drawer as expired coupons and half-finished thoughts. The future is a box, and you are already inside it, even if you haven’t opened your eyes.

Certainty is a joke, but it’s the kind of joke that everyone laughs at anyway. You nod along, pretending you understand the punchline, even though you’ve never heard it before. This could have been a box.

There’s a strange comfort in knowing that nothing is as important as it seems. The things you worry about today will dissolve into the same background noise as yesterday’s weather report. You’ll forget most of it, and the rest will forget you.

This text doesn’t help. It doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t even try. It’s just here, like a chair in an empty room, waiting for someone to sit down and realize they’ve been standing the whole time.

The future is already here. It’s just unevenly distributed, like socks in a dryer or thoughts in a tired mind. You’ll reach for it, and it will feel familiar, like a dream you’ve had before but can’t quite remember.

Meaning is a placeholder. It’s the word you use when you don’t know what else to say. You’ll fill in the blanks later, or you won’t. Either way, the page will still be there, waiting.

You’ll look back on this moment and wonder why it felt so significant. It wasn’t. But that’s the joke.